Victoria Falls

by James Hornor

  Melissa chose to ignore more porter discussions.

  “Is there a dress shop in Bulawayo? I need a dress for Wednesday’s reception.”

  I imagined spending the morning watching Melissa trying on cocktail dresses, and I wondered if in addition to accommodation at the Bulawayo Club, Melissa would ask me to pay for her dress. She had made it clear she was job hunting, so she might be short on cash.

  “We can ask at the Club. I’m sure they will know a shop. It would be a privilege to join you as you try on dresses.”

  At Melissa’s suggestion we packed up our cabin and headed to the lounge car for the final hour of the trip. Seeing a Harare newspaper on the seat next to mine, I was reminded that we would be on the train again tomorrow for the thirteen-hour trip to Harare.

  I had only been to the Bulawayo Club one other time, but I was looking forward to the sumptuous paneled interior and the small bar decorated with pictures of colonial scions such as Cecil Rhodes and Ian Smith. The Club was incorporated in 1895 as a gentlemen’s club, and it remains along with The Victoria Falls Hotel and the Meikles Hotel in Harare as one of the last surviving bastions of Rhodesian colonial history. There is a billiards room, but the preferred game is snooker, which is played on a billiards table but with completely different rules. Like The Victoria Falls Hotel and Meikles, the Bulawayo Club is a daily destination for Bulawayo’s most prominent citizens, and when you enter you see the local gentry reading newspapers and having tea or, later in the day, a drink.

  As it turned out, our train arrived in Bulawayo closer to 9:00, and by the time we got a cab to transport us and our luggage the ten blocks to the Club, it was closer to 10:00. There had been many attractive women staying at The Victoria Falls Hotel, but Bulawayo was not a destination town as much as a stop on the way to Victoria Falls or Harare. So I was a little taken aback by the admiring glances that Melissa received as we entered the lobby of the Club, and I quickly calculated that the wisest tact to take would be to register as husband and wife.

  “I have a reservation.”

  The desk clerk was busy counting cash, probably from their liquor sales of the night before.

  “What is the name, sir?”

  “Monroe, James Monroe.”

  “For one person?”

  “Actually, my wife has joined me, so there are two of us.”

  “Have you stayed here before?”

  “One time, probably two years ago.”

  “You are booked into a premium room, but since it is for Sunday evening I can upgrade you to an executive suite.”

  I could tell Melissa was becoming impatient. The desk clerk in her mind was becoming inefficient and too talkative. I decided to calm her.

  “Is there a dress shop in town?”

  It was the wrong thing to ask. It seemed to throw him off completely.

  “Let me give you your room key, and I’ll find the manager.”

  He returned in a few minutes and introduced us to a stentorian-looking man in his fifties who had glasses and a small mustache.

  “How can I help you?”

  “My wife and I are just staying one night, and we are looking for a dress shop—somewhere that sells evening clothes.”

  “The only shop like that is Maxine’s, but they are closed on Sundays.”

  “It’s fine, James,” said Melissa, “We can find a dress in Harare.”

  I realized that there was a part of me that wanted to be heroic for her—to take an impossible situation and somehow solve it.

  “Is that our only alternative?”

  The manager hesitated.

  “They did open the shop on Sunday afternoon a few months ago, but it was for a matron of honor whose luggage had been lost at the Harare airport. I could give them a call. In the meantime, why don’t you get settled in your room, and I’ll let you know either way.”

  I was fully expecting that he would not be able to find the owner, and we would have to rush around on Tuesday afternoon or Wednesday morning to find Melissa a dress. Instead, he called our room almost immediately with the news that we could meet the owner there at 3:00 P.M.

  When I hung up the phone and told Melissa the good news, she walked across the room, put her hand on the back of my neck, and gave me a longer-than-friendship kiss on the mouth. It was the first time we had kissed, and in those few seconds, as her tongue briefly touched the outside of my lips, I sensed that to journey into the world of her sensuality would be both ecstatically erotic and potentially dangerous. Like everything else about Melissa, her sexuality had an intensity about it that was impossibly attractive yet somehow also forbidden, as if the risk of falling for her might ultimately result in a point of no return.

  Maxine’s dress shop was only a few blocks from the Bulawayo Club, so after lunch and a nap, we walked there, arriving a few minutes early. The front door was open, and as we entered, a chime announced our arrival. A well-dressed woman, probably in her mid-fifties (undoubtedly Maxine herself), emerged from the recesses of the shop, and as soon as she greeted us, I detected a European accent, probably Czech or Bulgarian.

  “You must be Mr. and Mrs. Monroe.”

  I loved the idea of people addressing Melissa as my wife.

  “Tell me the occasion for the dress. Is the event this evening?”

  I wasn’t sure what the concierge at the Club might have said about the urgency of opening the shop on Sunday, so I quickly elevated the importance of Wednesday’s reception.

  “Mrs. Monroe and I have been invited to a diplomatic reception in Harare. This will be our only opportunity to buy a dress.”

  I intentionally left out the Wednesday timeframe, and before I had a chance to say more, Maxine had again disappeared to the back of the store, and she re-emerged in about five minutes, wheeling a rack of elegant dresses.

  “I’m guessing you’re a size six, and you’re in luck. I have some lovely sixes that will make Mrs. Monroe the envy of every woman in the room.”

  I sat off to the side, content to spend the next forty-five minutes watching Melissa try on some of Maxine’s prized collection. All of them looked terrific on her, but in the end she chose a black velvet, just-below-the-knee evening dress with a sheer neckline that complimented her lovely neck and shoulders. It made her look sophisticated and slightly provocative, and as I paid Maxine in cash, I thought of how proud I would be to have her at my side on Wednesday evening. As we headed out the door, Melissa paused our progress and kissed me on the cheek.

  “Thank you, James. What a lovely gift.”

  Although there were numerous restaurant choices for dinner, we decided instead to stay at the Club, and we both agreed that an early night would probably be wise, as we had another lengthy train ride to Harare the next day.

  After dinner we decamped to the famous Bulawayo Club bar and billiard room for an after-dinner drink, and when we arrived there were two men who had left their brandy snifters at the bar so that they could focus completely on their game of snooker.

  Melissa wandered over to the snooker table while I ordered drinks, and in a few minutes she had engaged one of the men in conversation.

  “Didn’t know I would find a fellow Aussie in the hinterlands of Zimbabwe!”

  The man addressing Melissa had reddish-brown hair, and I guessed he was in his mid-fifties. He was muscular and athletic looking, and he looked like he could easily snap the snooker stick if he became agitated due to a poor shot.

  I handed Melissa her drink, and I noticed that she was intently watching the strategic shots of both players.

  “Do you know the rules of this game?”

  My question was to Melissa, but it was loud enough for both men to hear. They looked over at me with a disdain that I had experienced before when dealing with citizens of the Commonwealth.

  “I grew up playing snooker in Melbourne. I was actually school champion one year at St. Margaret’s.”

  “Did I hear Melbourne?”

  The man with reddish-brown hair was now l
ooking at Melissa.

  “I was school champion two years running.”

  “That’s impressive. We didn’t even have a snooker table at Carey Baptist.”

  “You went to Carey Baptist Grammar School?”

  “I’m sorry to say that I was there for six years. Wasn’t the school’s fault. I was more interested in sport than studies.”

  At this Melissa moved closer to the table.

  “I haven’t played snooker in ten years, but I would love to take on the winner.”

  Both men looked at each other, and I could see the skepticism in their eyes. It was one thing for a woman to have a drink at the bar, but for a woman to challenge a man to a game of snooker at the Bulawayo Club was undoubtedly a first.

  “Sure, you can play the winner, but we still have another frame after this one, so it may be awhile. By the way, I’m Marcus Finch, and my buddy here is John Langford.”

  Melissa extended her hand.

  “I’m Melissa Monroe and this is my husband, James Monroe.”

  We all shook hands across the table, and I noticed that Marcus held Melissa’s hand just a second or two longer than what would be considered a normal greeting. Melissa and I returned to the bar, and as we sat facing the snooker table Melissa attempted to explain the snooker rules.

  “Different colored balls have different points. If you pot a colored ball, it must be followed by a red ball pot. The strategy is to avoid fouls and to amass as many points as possible in a frame.”

  I thought about the enormous mahogany four-poster bed in our executive suite. Tomorrow evening would be another double berth on the train, and although our train cabin was comfortable, train sleeping could not compete with the space and amenities of the Bulawayo Club. I decided to try to convince Melissa to forego the snooker challenge.

  “Instead of having another drink, why don’t we head up to the room?”

  Melissa continued to stare at the table, and she took another sip of brandy.

  “I can’t allow these Aussies to think they’ve scared me off.”

  “Since we’ve barely met them, does it really matter?”

  If anything, my questioning was making her more firmly entrenched.

  “I can’t let them think that a St. Margaret’s girl would walk away from a challenge.”

  I decided to revert to a little sarcasm.

  “We wouldn’t want your Melbourne grammar school to be disgraced in Bulawayo.”

  But Melissa could not be humored, and I could hear her next suggestion before the words were delivered.

  “Why don’t you go on up and I’ll join you in less than an hour?”

  If I stayed I would be instantly telegraphing my insecurity about leaving Melissa in the company of two men, and I didn’t relish the idea of sitting through another two or three frames of snooker.

  “Here’s the room key. If you don’t come back by midnight, I’m sending out a posse.”

  I tried to sound as unconcerned as possible, but inwardly I was distraught that she was remaining in the bar with two strangers. As I readied for bed, I decided to leave the door unlocked on the offhand chance that she might misplace the key.

  I awakened about three hours later and looked at my watch. 1:30 A.M. The bathroom light was on, and I remembered that the room had been completely dark when I had drifted off to sleep. I got up and went into the bathroom and noticed that Melissa’s make-up bag was sitting on top of the small table fully opened. I couldn’t remember if the bag had been there when I came up to the room at 10:30, but the light being on introduced the possibility that Melissa had come back to the room and left again.

  Against my better judgment, I got up, hastily dressed, slightly propped the door and headed down to the lobby. The entire downstairs was completely dark except for the light of two floor lamps as I headed down the corridor to the bar. It too was dark and had the look of being closed for several hours. At the front desk was a framed placard explaining to guests who they should call if assistance was needed during the night.

  I headed back to the room, wondering how I could find the room number for Marcus Finch. I was quickly concluding that Melissa must be with one (or both) of the two Aussies. My imagination began to invent all sorts of situations, and as I climbed back into bed, sleep seemed only a remote possibility.

  I lay there thinking that Melissa might return at any moment, that she had just gone to one of their rooms for a nightcap. It occurred to me that I was essentially in the same situation that Richard Benjamin had been subjected to less than a week ago. Maybe it was divine retribution, and if so, whoever had designed my punishment was being surgically precise. It was almost identical to Richard’s situation except that he knew where Teresa was spending the night.

  I thought about the night when I had tried to contact Catherine after we had been separated for almost three months. Jenny was staying with me for the weekend, and after she went to bed I sat up and watched Sleeper, the Woody Allen–Diane Keaton film that Catherine and I used to watch together, doubled over with laughter. About one hour into the film, I picked up the phone and called her. It was only 10:30 P.M., and I knew she would still be up on a Saturday night. I let it ring five or six times and then hung up before the answering machine came on.

  I should have left it at that, but instead I called her again in thirty minutes. This time, on the message I tried to sound as breezy and unconcerned as possible, but it had already occurred to me that she was probably out with Brian, who Jenny had mentioned at dinner was “Mom’s new friend.”

  Even though Catherine and I had agreed that it would be fine for each of us to date other people during the separation, the idea had remained only a theory for me, and so for the first time I was confronted with the reality of her being with another man. As it turned out, between 11:00 P.M. and 4:00 A.M., I left eight or nine messages on her phone, each one more pathetic than the previous one, so that later the next day, when I returned Jenny to what had been our family home, Catherine simply said that she had listened to the first three messages and erased the rest. I said that I was sorry, but from that point on she began to protect her personal space in ways that were completely foreign to the bonds we once had in our marriage. Because of my impetuous suspicions, I ripped away whole sections of the fabric of friendship that we were both committed to when we agreed to separate.

  As I lay there watching the bedside clock click down the minutes to 2:00 A.M., I thought about how I should react to Melissa’s return, even if it didn’t occur until dawn. Through earlier painful situations like the one with Catherine, I had learned that being confrontational or acting wounded would be the impetus for the relationship to begin a slow dissolve. Most women want their freedom, and once they detect barriers they begin to move away—consciously or subconsciously—to an equilibrium where they are fully accepted for who they are and who they desire to be.

  I heard the door lock quietly unlatch. Melissa was making every effort to be quiet, and when she slipped into the bathroom and turned on the light, I lay there undecided as to whether I should feign sleep or pretend to have just awakened. Several minutes later she turned out the bathroom light and quietly slipped into bed. As she snuggled closer to me I realized that although she was completely naked, she was warm.

  “Warm,” I thought, “from another man’s bed.”

  “James, are you awake?”

  “I’m partly awake; is everything OK?”

  “I need for you to hold me close to you.”

  As she said this, she placed her right leg over mine so that she was almost lying on top of me.

  “I want you to hold me. I’m feeling a little frightened.”

  Was she frightened by what had just happened with the Aussies? A part of me wanted a fuller explanation, but thinking better of it, I pulled her closer to me, allowing her to know that she was now safe. My heart began to pound as she moved her head from my shoulder to the center of my chest. I leaned over and kissed her hair and with that her lips kissed
my neck and then my lips. Whatever else I was feeling at that moment quickly evaporated. I was hopelessly infatuated with her, and I no longer cared about her motives, her veracity, or even what may have happened with Marcus Finch and John Langford. Melissa and I were alone together in sub-Saharan Africa, and for the moment, nothing else could possibly matter.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  CHARLIE WAS AWAKENED AROUND 2:00 BY THE sound of a truck coming up the driveway. He turned on the bedside lamp and went to the window. It was dark in the driveway, but even in the darkness he could see that it was the mechanic’s truck.

  The truck idled for a moment and then a man got out and began walking towards the woodpile. Charlie pulled on his shirt and pants and rushed downstairs. As he pulled open the front door, the man ran back to the cab and struggled for a moment to get it into reverse. As the gears grinded, Charlie began walking towards the cab.

  “Where’s Jenny?” he shouted, but the man’s head was already turned away from him as the truck kicked into reverse and backed down the drive. Charlie had enough presence to glance at the license plate but in the glare of the headlights all he was able to see were the letters WL followed by three or four numbers. It was clearly an Alberta plate. As the truck faded into the darkness, Charlie stood in the drive and shivered from the shock of the cold and the realization that his worst fears about Jenny could not now be disputed. He wondered where the man had left her and whether she was dead or alive. Knowing that he couldn’t go back to sleep, Charlie sat down next to the fire, which was now just a few glowing embers.

  “He came back for something,” Charlie thought, “But what could have possibly been the significance of the woodpile?”

  Even though it was the middle of the night, Charlie found a flashlight in the kitchen drawer, put on his coat, gloves, and boots, and went out to investigate. The woodpile was partially covered with several inches of snow from the previous afternoon, and Charlie began to methodically brush away the layers, not knowing what he was looking for. After about thirty minutes of carefully removing snow and looking around the woodshed, his fingers were beginning to numb in the subzero temperatures. He decided to resume searching in the morning, and knowing that he would need wood for the morning fire, he lifted two logs from the top of the pile. As he did so, he noticed a white object fall off to the side. Jenny’s phone! Charlie dropped the logs and headed back into the house clutching the phone and staring at the face of it, somehow thinking that she might have left a last-second text as she was forced against her will into the truck.